I made my first sale of my own art work tonight to a man named Jay-Jay.
The asking price for all of my sketches at the group show was $5 or best offer, and $5 was the best offer for this sketch, my first sale. That was Jay-Jay's offer.
The subject of the sketch, of the art work, was the rock musician, Anne Tkach. She is dear to me. She had signed the sketch.
After buying the piece, Jay-Jay turned around, God bless the man, and gave the sketch to Brett Underwood, possibly as a tip for a beer. At the time of the gift, Brett was tending bar at The Tap Room.
Brett must have remembered the night I drew the sketch. I came down to The Tap Room that night, specifically, to tell him, in person, that our dear friend John Eiler's 20-year-old daughter Sali had been killed in Mexico.
Anne was there at the old bar that night. I drew her picture. I was drawing a lot of pictures at the time. It helped to divert my houghts of homidice, suicide, omnicide; don't get me started. I asked Anne to sign it.
That's my schtick. I draw people then ask them to sign the sketch. Schtick? I mean, that's my sense of the multivalent possibilties inherent in the dialectic of the inherent limitations of the form. Yar.
I had to tell Brett that Sali was dead. I only know John because Brett shared him with me. You pay debts. Especially emotional ones. You pay debts.
And so pain becomes brotherhood. Becomes distraction. Becomes art. Becomes sale. Becomes tip to barman. Becomes something else that Brett keeps sacred.
p.s. Photo by John. Don't even get him or any of the mayor's other Republican supporters started on the subject of Italian National Public Radio.